The Monstrosity That Is Now
by Jasmine Lita Everdeen
Summary: Primrose Everdeen had been sheltered from violence her whole life. She can't bring herself to hurt anyone or anything. But when her sister Katniss is reaped, she volunteers to take her place. She is then caught up in a world of blood and lies. To make things worse, her friend Rory Hawthorn is there with her. Can she survive the Hunger Games? Will she choose life or love?
1. Chapter 1

**PART I**

**"THE TRIBUTES"**

**CHAPTER 1**

I wake up to Katniss' arms curled protectively around my waist. But that doesn't chase away the horrible feeling left by the nightmare. I gently release myself from her embrace, and sneak over to Mom's bed. I sit down, easing myself next to Mom. Buttercup, my cat, springs up next to me and mews.

"Good kitty, Buttercup." I say, stroking his fur.

I still don't know why Katniss hates him. To me, Buttercup is beautiful. Dark yellow fur with dots of brown.

It's hard to find a bit of beauty in District 12.

My sister stirs, throwing an arm out where I was. I quickly curl up and close my eyes three quarters of the way, peeking from the tiny gap. I see Katniss first look around for me, but she sees me with Mom and relaxes. She gets of the bed and pads out, to go to the woods no doubt.

I don't approve, but I know that Katniss' hunting is the only thing keeping us alive. In the past, I remember a time when I went to bed hungry, an aching hole in my stomach that was begging to be filled. All Katniss could do was provide some thin soup, but that only made it worst.

Then, one night, when I was sure that I would keel over and die, Katniss appeared in the doorway, clutching two burnt loaves. I almost did die when I smelt the roasted nuts and fruit in it, and I tried to get a piece. My sister held me back, waiting for Mom to come over, and then we all ate it. That was the first time that I went to bed with a full stomach in a long time.

The next day, after school, Katniss grabbed my hand and we collected dandelions and other plants to make dandelion stew. I guess that was when Katniss decided to go hunting. She took me to the woods once, and I hated it. It's too dangerous, and when I shot an animal – well, let's just say that I can't bear to see anything in pain.

I hope that she enjoys Lady's cheese that I left on the table.

Mom groans a bit, jolting me back to the present. I hop off the bed, making sure that she doesn't know that I was on her bed. Not that she would notice, anyway. I go over to our dresser, and brush my blond hair gently. Fear seizes me when I remember that it's Reaping Day.

My first Reaping Day, to be exact.

I grip the edge of the dresser to stop myself from falling. It's Reaping Day. I could go to the Hunger Games. Not that it is likely, but it could happen. Katniss did tell me that it is highly unlikely that I would be chosen, but let's hope that the odds are in my favour today.

I dress in the outfit lying on the chair. I'm assuming that it's for me, since it looks a bit small for Katniss. It's pale yellow, a skirt that goes down to my knees and a ruffled blouse. I frown as I straighten it. It's a bit big for my slight frame.

A cold hand touches my shoulder, and I jump a little. It's Mom, though, and she's leaning over me to get some pins. She pins the blouse down onto the skirt to make it fit me. Mom tucks the back in, since it is sticking out.

"Morning, Primrose." She says quietly.

"Morning, Mom." I say back.

She smiles gently and goes off to the closet. I look after her. She never really says anything when Katniss is in the house, just 'yes's and 'no's and the nodding of the head. Katniss never really talks to Mom, either. Just me. It's like I'm the messenger between them, the meditator.

Katniss tromps into the room, carrying some fish, a couple of loaves of bread, greens, a few handfuls of strawberries and two other things that I can't see clearly. She puts them down on the table and undresses to lower herself into the warm water. I go over and take a look at the things that she clearly bought from the Hob. The two things that I couldn't see are paraffin and some coins.

"Are you sure?" I hear Katniss say.

I glance over to see what's going on. Katniss barely says more than two words to Mom, and that's on her good days.

"Of course," Mom replies. "Let's put your hair up too."

Mom braids Katniss' hair up in an intricate braid that I could never do.

"You look beautiful." I whisper to Katniss. It's true, she really does.

"And nothing like myself." She says back, hugging me.

I love it when Katniss hugs me. She never shows affection when she is out of the house. Sometimes, I think that she only shows her feelings when she is around me.

"Tuck your tail in, little duck," says Katniss, tucking in the end of my blouse into my skirt.

I giggle and give a small 'quack' to Katniss.

"Quack yourself," she says with a light laugh. The kind that only I can draw out of her. "Come on, let's eat," she says and plants a quick kiss on my head.

The fish and greens are already cooking in a stew, but that will be for supper. We decide to save the strawberries and bakery bread for this evening's meal, to make it special we say. Instead we drink milk from Lady, and eat the rough bread made from tessera bread, although no one has much appetite anyway.

At one o'clock, we head for the square. Attendance is mandatory unless you are at death's door. This evening, officials will come around and check to see if this is the case. If not, you'll be imprisoned.

It's too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square – one of the few places in District 12 that can be pleasant. The squares surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially if there's good weather, it has a holiday feel to it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.

People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well. Twelve – through eighteen-year-olds are herded into roped area marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the kids, like me, towards the back. I'm going to be at the back today, since it's my first reaping.

Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands. But there are others, too, who have no one they love at stake or who longer care, who slip among the crown, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn. Odds are given on their ages, whether they're Seam or merchant, if they will break down and weep. Most refuse dealing with those people but carefully, carefully. These same people tend to be informers, and who hasn't broken the law? Even I could be shot because I eat food from outside the fence.

But Katniss and I agree that if we have to choose between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be much quicker.

The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. The square's quite large, but not enough to hold District 12's population of about 8000. Latecomers are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as it's televised live by the state.

Even though it is my first Reaping, I had to attend Katniss' Reapings so I have a pretty good idea about what is going on.

I find myself standing in a clump on 12 year olds from the Seam and town alike. Lucy, one of my friends from school, sidles up to me and grips my hand. We are close, closer than just friends, and I hope that Lucy or I don't get reaped.

I focus my attention on the temporary stage that is set up before the Justice Building. It holds three chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls, one for the boys and one for the girls. I stare at the paper slips in the girls' ball. One of them have Primrose Everdeen written on them in careful handwriting.

Two of the three chairs fill with the Mayor of District 12, Mayor Undersee, who's a tall, balding man, and Effie Trinket, District 12's escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin, pinkish hair and spring green suit. They murmur to each other and they look with concern at the empty seat.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. I have heard it before at Katniss' reapings, and it's the same story every year. He tells of the history of Panem, the country that rose up out of the ashes of a place that was once called North America. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained. The result was Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which brought peaceand prosperity to its citizens. Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others. The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year, the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor.

Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In seventy-four years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive. Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligible, staggers onto the stage, and falls into the third chair. He's drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its token applause, but he's confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now District 12 is the laughing stock of Panem, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Effie Trinket.

Bright and bubbly as ever, Effie Trinket trots to the podium and gives her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Her pink hair must be a wig because her curls have shifted slightly off-center since her encounter with Haymitch. She goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, although everyone knows she's just aching to get bumped up to a better district where they have proper victors, not drunks who molest you in front of the entire nation.

Through the crowd, I spot Rory Hawthorn, Gale's brother, looking back at me with a ghost of a smile. As reapings go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor. But suddenly I am thinking of Rory and his two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not really in his favour. But compared to a lot of boys, it is. His brother Gale has at least forty names in that big glass ball. Maybe he is thinking the same thing because his face darkens and turns away.

"But there are still thousands of slips," I wish I could whisper to him.

It's time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always does, "Ladies first!" and crosses to the glass ball with the girls' names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I'm feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it's not me, that it's not me, that it's not me.

Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smooths the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it's not me.

It's Katniss Everdeen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the review so far!**

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**CHAPTER 2**

There was a time when I was reckless. Unbelievable, I know, but I suppose a bit of dad's genes made it's way into my DNA.

Anyway, one time, Lucy dared me to climb up onto the schoolyard roof at lunchtime. I protested, because it didn't seem like a sensible thing to do. But Lucy said that I was obviously scared, and so I did it. I clambered onto the roof unsteadily, never as stealthily as Katniss always does. I got up. Lucy was standing below me, cheering me on.

Then came a shout from the schoolyard teacher. She started to rush towards me, but it was as if it was in slow motion. I took a deep breath and jumped.

I had a brief sensation of flying, then I hit the ground. I landed on my back. It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from my lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything. Lucy started crying as she ran towards me, and the teacher told me that I had the breath knocked out of me. But it felt like I was dying slowly.

That's how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as the name bounces around the inside of my skull. Lucy is gripping my arm so tight that it is going numb, and I think maybe I started to fall and she caught me.

Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a kid with a large family gets chosen because no one thinks this is fair, especially with Katniss being the breadwinner. And then I see her, the blood drained from her face, hands clenched in fists at her sides, walking with stiff, small steps up toward the stage, passing me, and I see the braids in her hair have started to droop, as if with sadness. It's this detail, the drooping braids, that brings me back to myself.

"Katniss!" The strangled cry comes out of my throat, and my muscles begin to move again. "Katniss!" I don't need to shove through the crowd. The other kids make way immediately allowing me a straight path to the stage. I reach her just as she is about to mount the steps. I circle my arms around her waist and pull her backwards and I step in front of her.

"I volunteer!" I gasp. "I volunteer as tribute!"

There's some confusion on the stage. District 12 hasn't had a volunteer in decades and the protocol has become rusty. The rule is that once a tribute's name has been pulled from the ball, another eligible boy, if a boy's name has been read, or girl, if a girl's name has been read, can step forward to take his or her place. In some districts, in which winning the reaping is such a great honour, people are eager to risk their lives, the volunteering is complicated. But in District 12, where the word tribute is pretty much synonymous with the word corpse, volunteers are all but extinct.

"Lovely!" says Effie Trinket. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um..." she trails off, unsure herself.

"What does it matter?" says the mayor. He's looking at me with a pained expression on his face. He doesn't know me really, but there's a faint recognition there. I am the girl who is the little sister of the girl who brings the strawberries. The girl with the talented healing hands and two blond braids. The girl who five years ago stood huddled with her mother and sister, as he presented her sister, the oldest child, with a medal of valour. A medal for her father, vaporised in the mines. Does he remember that? "What does it matter?" he repeats gruffly. "Let her come forward."

Katniss is trembling behind me. She tries to shove me out of the way, but I don't let her. "No, Prim! No! I order you to go back to your mother!"

"Katniss, go," I say harshly, because this is upsetting me and I don't want to cry. When they televise the replay of the reapings tonight, everyone will make note of my tears, and I'll be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I will give no one that satisfaction. "Go!"

I can feel someone stop her from pushing me. I turn and see Gale has steered Katniss away from me and she's trying to turn back and go back. "Up you go, Prim," he says in a voice he's fighting to keep steady, and then he leads a sobbing Katniss off towards my mother.

"No!" she cries, tears streaming down her face.

My heart nearly breaks because my sister rarely shows any emotion, but I swallow and climb the steps.

"Well, bravo!" gushes Effie Trinket. "That's the spirit of the Games!" She's pleased to finally have a district with a little action going on in it. "What's your name?"

I clench my fists. "Primrose Everdeen," I say.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" trills Effie Trinket.

To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not

one person claps. Not even the ones holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly because they know me from the Hob, or knew my father, or have encountered Katniss, who provides the best game in all of District 12. So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence. Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.

Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don't expect it because I don't think of District 12 as a place that cares about me. But a shift has occurred since I stepped up to take Katniss' place, and now it seems I have become someone precious. At first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to me. It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.

Now I am truly in danger of crying, but fortunately Haymitch chooses this time to come staggering across the stage to congratulate me. "Look at her. Look at this one!" he hollers, throwing an arm around my shoulders.

He's surprisingly strong for such a wreck. "I like her!" His breath reeks of liquor and it's been a long time since he's bathed. "Lots of. . . "He can't think of the word for a while. "Spunk!" he says triumphantly. I have spunk? More like Katniss does. "More than you!" he releases me and starts for the front of the stage. "More than you!" he shouts, pointing directly into a camera.

Is he addressing the audience or is he so drunk he might actually be taunting the Capitol? I'll never know because just as he's opening his mouth to continue, Haymitch plummets off the stage and knocks himself unconscious.

He's disgusting, but I'm grateful. With every camera gleefully trained on him, I have just enough time to release the small, choked sound in my throat and compose myself. I put my hands behind my back and stare into the distance.

I can see the hills of the woods outside District 12 that Katniss always climbs. For a moment, I yearn for something... the idea of us leaving the district that Rory once told me about... making our way in the woods... but I know I was right about telling Rory that I wouldn't leave with him if he did. Because who else would have volunteered for Katniss? Gale is a guy.

Haymitch is whisked away on a stretcher, and Effie Trinket is trying to get the ball rolling again. "What an exciting day!" she warbles as she attempts to straighten her wig, which has listed severely to the right. "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!" Clearly hoping to contain her tenuous hair situation, she plants one hand on her head as she crosses to the ball that contains the boys' names and grabs the first slip she encounters. She zips back to the podium, and I don't even have time to wish for Rory's safety when she's reading the name. "Gale Hawthorn."

I screw my eyes tightly shut as the drama that carried out when I volunteered for Katniss repeats. I hear Rory's shout of 'I volunteer!' as Gale's roar of rage. But in the end, everything is silent.

No, the odds are not in my favour today. I open my eyes and watch as Rory makes his way towards to stage. Tall height, lean build, dark brown hair that falls as straight as a pin down his forehead. The shock of the moment and the rage of his brother getting reaped is registering on his face, you can see his struggle to remain emotionless as Katniss and Gale often are, but his stormy grey eyes show the dead look that chills me right down to the bone. It's like he has already given up hope. Yet he climbs steadily onto the stage and takes him place on the other side of Effie.

Effie Trinket squeals again because of the excitement she must be feeling. She asks Rory's name, and he says 'Rory Hawthorn' in a dead voice. She squeals again. I can read her thoughts: _Finally, there is some excitement happening in District 12! What a welcome change!_

She leads for applause, but no one claps. They give the sign of District 12 again, acknowledging our bravery to step up. It makes me like of sick, though, because it wasn't an act of bravery that made me volunteer. It was an act of love.

The mayor begins to read the long, dull Treaty of Treason as he does every year at this point — it's required — but I'm not listening to a word.

Why him? I think. Then I try to convince myself it doesn't matter. Even though me and Rory know each other really well, I probably won't kill him. Heck, he will probably make it home. Out of me and him, it's obvious who will win. The weakling or the much stronger one? It's not a hard choice.

The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Rory and me to shake hands. His are as solid and warm as the fire that he tends to at home. I've been to the Hawthorn's house manu times, and Rory's always sitting in the lounge, beside the fire. He looks me right in the eye and his eyes are full of emptiness. The light that was sparkling in there is extinguished.

We turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem plays.

Oh, well, I think. There will be twenty-four of us. Odds are someone else will kill him before I do.

Of course, the odds have not been very dependable of late.

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